Rex moved. He positioned himself in front of George, and the sound that came from his throat now was not ambiguous at all. It was a steady rumble of discontent. “I’ve come a long way,” Marcus said. The smile had thinned. “Just tell her I’m here.” George kept his hand on the door. His heart had picked up pace, but his voice stayed level. “I’m going to ask you to take your hand off my door.”
From upstairs, they heard, “George?” Zoe’s voice, just a question. There was a pause. Then her footsteps on the stairs. She appeared in the hallway and stopped. The color left her face so fast it was like watching something drain. She said, very quietly: “Marcus.” The man’s expression shifted—something softened in it. “There you are,” he said.
Then George heard Zoe exhale behind him, and Rex launched himself across the kitchen at Zoe, who momentarily lost her balance. But she was fine. As he calmed down Rex, George took his phone from his pocket, and dialed 911. Marcus was still watching Zoe. Zoe was watching Marcus. And Rex was right beside her, planted like a wall.